Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Precise determinations of centuries are at best foggy and opaque through the eye of a beholder.

Time is a river of circular origins but not the way you’d think. Time was not a river of one life but many lives entwined within a multitude of one great life; one great existence.

And the beholder knows all of this. Time itself is irrelevant, the past is very much the present and the future is the whispering wind on the precipices which knocks and corners and writes and bleeds and makes cryptic comments.

For centuries, humans have been blessed with the future, its implications, and its mysteries. So completely obsessed that future has become a monstrous thing to behold.

But what of the beholder? How does he see this great mystery?

Atlast it’s not the future, it is the past that holds a magnificent fascination for the beholder. Fascination perhaps but the grip is from the other side. The past itself. The past grips the beholder in a stranglehold and lays out a canvas of unblinking realities.

Mathematicians, logical analysts,  philosophers, painters and  dreamers, all have been greatly involved in the breaking down the conundrum of time and space. Some sought to nullify it, make its existence surreal, an imagined phenomenon. Some created it and created the ideas enfolding it.

But what is time?

It is all the same. Made of little bits of reality and largely the haunting of the past and the monstrosity that is the future.

But what of these monsters?

If the future was the monstrosity, then the past was the nightmare lurking under your bed on a cold winter’s night.

There you go, I have written a bit of the past and the future and time and conundrums, not making a spit of sense. But I have written something.

Something of who I am.

Who am I, you ask? Human of course.

But what does that mean anyway? To be human?

For centuries all that man has been taught is that we are human and that is the sum total of it. What you make of it is what will become of you. That is what will become of our humanity.

Once upon a time that humanity was described by the greatness of adventurers who discovered distant lands, of the philosophers who spun ideas out of thin air and learned to define and explore and re-define and debate. And the architects with their giant sculptures of art and symmetry, of perfection and practicality, of beauty and monstrosity.

There was a time when humanity was defined by riches, based on wealth and power and monopolies and leaders.

Oh and what of that time when humanity was nothing but a succession of wars and weapons and guns and bombs and basically humanity was the name given to the eradication of the humanity.

Perhaps it’s the same as power and riches and monstrosity.

All his self acclaimed notion of humanity and nobody ever found out the actual defining nature of it.

Except a select few. The beholders. With time in their grasp of understanding, and they themselves in the grasp of time.

Well there I go rambling on about humanity now.

I was beginning on the vast concept of me.

But I can’t do that now can I? Not without sounding conceited.

After all who am I to put the entire definition of humanity within one lowly body, within one moderate creature, within a single existence? Who am I to self contain the great idea of humanity, the idea that we have spent centuries defining and redefining?

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Empty Stories

Empty Stories

I know we’re in it to fight wars. I know we’re in it to build nations. I know we’re in it for our battles. I know we’re not human.

You do not need to remind me.

Because my reflection reminds me.

And the deaths remind me.

I’m sorry you went out for war. I’m sorry you couldn’t say good bye. I’m sorry there are no more planes of existence left for you and I to inhabit.

I’m sorry I had to leave too. To fight my own battles. To face my own existence.

When your letters come, they’ll be filled with empty stories of houses and horses. Your old bike that sits abandoned in the yard. The frayed books that lie on counter tops. The cracked book case with dusty snow globes. The snow that enchanted our winters. The summer that gave to it. My pale dress of pearls and your old wrist watch.

So empty.

Because we went out for our wars. Because our countries burned. Because we were made to stand on the precipices and watch humanity’s demise.

We were made to watch and we turned to stones. Stony hearts. Stony silences.

So when your letters come, they’ll be filled with empty stories.

The Magic

The Magic

You remember too much

Of amber roses and stone cold touch

You remember a battle

The accompanying bloodshed

You remember chasing yourself

Through a sheltered wood, dark.

You remember the steely blue gaze

And the fire warmed hearth

And the sun warmed porch

 

Where did the magic go?

The restless ending of trivial events

Then enchanting rise of the sun

The new beginnings in wintry sunrises

Simple magic.

Maybe I’ll wave it myself.

In words, I’ll weave the magic.

Weave it into an embrace

To cover our cold, dead hearts.

 

You see I have felt it all.

The magic in everything

I have felt grandeur of the sunrise

And the vainglorious sunset.

The tense impatience of the wind

The urgency of the gathering clouds

The love felt in every pelt of a rain drop.

The sunrise has all the grandness of birth, the simple burst of yellow light is like the revelation of a great secret to the world. If you see petals bursting forth in fast motion, you’ll know what I mean.

 

 

too much